A father looks at his son, asks:
put on that monk’s cowl, then the light
will catch your face just right.
His face: cautious, restrained,
shielded on both sides by
old musty fabric. He sits down
in the sprightly morning sun,
against an earthen-dark wall,
in the chestnut-coloured cowl.
The son does not return the look,
fixes his eyes on the ground
as if he knows what is to come.
Still a father looks at his son,
touched up, brushed over,
fixed, the colour not yet set.
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